


A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness

by xxarrowwolfxx



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Aedions Mom, Angst, Backstory, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Multi, Pre-Book 1: Throne of Glass, Romance, This is going to be so sad, hope you enjoy!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2020-10-18 23:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20647427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxarrowwolfxx/pseuds/xxarrowwolfxx
Summary: Eleanor Ashryver, noble lady and Princess of Wendlyn, swore viciously as she looked over at Evalin and hissed "...Is he....singing?""I believe so, cousin." Evalin tried and failed to hide the smile spreading across her face, her eyes flicking over to the open window where a lovely tune waltzed, "it seems you've got yourself a tom cat yowling at your window."Bloody gods.----A take on the story of Aedion's mother and Gavriel's meeting, relationship and eventual parting. Pre-Throne of Glass but follows all established canon points. Rating due to future sex scenes and some coarse language.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All! This is a little short side project I decided to work on since I recently re-read Kingdom of Ash. Not much information is given on Aedion's mother in the canon or on what her relationship with Evalin and Rhoe was so I took creative liberty and established one. 
> 
> The waulking song used for this chapter is located here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRcXCdwfM9k
> 
> Enjoy!

Shafts of warm sunlight slipped through the high arches of the servants’ quarters of the palace in Varese as they worked, swathing the room in a buttery golden hue. The sparkling rays danced across the fibers of the wool as it thumped rhythmically across the table, setting the threads shimmering like emeralds.

Each press of the freshly dyed fabric against the wood thrummed through the sun-warmed hall as it was passed from hand to hand, tugging and stretching.  
  
Beautiful, lithe voices raised in unison in time with its cadence.

_He mo leannan,_

_Hó mo leannan,_

_‘S e mo leannan a’ fear ùr—_

An old fae ditty, reserved for waulking--- and one of Princess Eleanor Ashryver’s favorite tunes to sing during one of her most beloved pastimes. She’d routinely sneak away from palace duties to participate in it, spending her time singing and sitting thigh to thigh and elbow to elbow with the servants, her friends, kneading and stretching the bolt.

With a twist of her hands, she worked the fabric beneath her palms, feet tapping in time as her voice rose and fell along, her nail beds already saturated with deep emerald. The wool in her hands was freshly woven cashmere soaked in Terrasen green, crafted specifically for its future princess, Evalin Ashryver, soon to be Galathynius.

The lovely lady whose intellect and grace could crack even the hardest of foes, who was renowned for carrying a presence of wisdom and strength.

That was, if you didn’t know of the bashful creature she could become behind closed doors, the bright flush that overtook her pale skin when flustered or the rare but clever curses that could slip through her delicate lips when no one was listening.

It was those parts of her cousin that Eleanor knew and loved the best, the parts she knew that Evalin’s future husband would grow to love as well. That was, if they could get the blushing bride to walk down the aisle without her turning the shade of a tomato or spluttering like a broken spigot.

Fortunately, the event was still months off.

Enough time for dear Evalin to pull herself together enough that she might string coherent sentences together before being bound to her handsome and _daring_ Prince Rhoe, heir of Terrasen’s great throne.

Eleanor couldn’t help but grin, the lovesick expression of her cousin’s fair face still dancing through her mind.

She’d never let Evalin hear the end of it.

Not that the young prince had responded much better according to the gossip that flitted through the palace in the wake of her return. Apparently, King Orlon had had a jolly time teasing the lovebirds throughout Evalin’s stay and had laughed quite loudly and openly at his brother’s attempt at courtship upon the princess’s departure.

Two birds of a feather then, destined to rule a bright and glorious kingdom.

She could not find room for more joy in her heart at the prospect.

Even if part of her panged at the emptiness that would follow her cousin’s nuptials and inevitable departure. While born a princess, Eleanor’s right was only in name, not poised to inherit any power or lands, and her future had always been somehow . . . flat and vague.

And without Evalin’s constant presence and companionship…

She gripped the fabric tightly as the next length was passed to her, her mind willing the worm of sorrow away.

Now wasn’t the time for such idle thoughts. Even if the prospect had chased sleep from her in the previous weeks, leaving her mind to wander in the darkness of her chambers.

Even if Evalin had looked prime to invite her to go with her, to whisk her off to Terrasen so that they would never be apart . . .

She banished the thought.

No, she could not go. Wendlyn was her home and where she would stay. Even if her dearest cousin was to set sail for foreign lands.

Close in age, she and Evalin had been hand in hand since they were children, nearly identical in appearance and thick as thieves and twice as mischievous.

The palace staff had bemoaned their more . . . adventurous endeavors. Even as encroaching adulthood had slowly stripped them of the freedom they’d relished in their youth, they’d still found ways to entertain themselves and stir up trouble in the way that only two young princesses might.

Old Nan had still yet to forgive them for stealing Lord Edgar’s wig six summers before, their teenage curiosity getting the better of them. They’d merely wondered if the rumors of it being made of cat hair were true.

The rumors, much to her and Evalin’s eternal disappointment, had been false.

Lord Edgar’s fit of rage and spewing had not been, however, the lord having fled the castle in such a rage that he’d forgotten to dress himself properly and had loaded himself into his carriage in only his underthings.

He’d yet to visit the palace again much to her cousin, the crowned King Glaston’s, annoyance.

Eleanor had remained unruffled when confronted, justifying that the man was insufferable anyway, hardly fit for life as a human much less as a lord. Evalin, ever the pacifist, had supported her claim, albeit in far fewer, much less damning words.

They’d been sent to drudgery duty as punishment: Evalin to the kitchens and Eleanor to seamstresses, in hopes that separating the girls might dampen their exploits. Much to everyone’s disappointment, Eleanor had discovered a love of weaving and now made a habit of sneaking off to join the servants. Evalin, for her part, had taken an interest in the culture of the demi-fae staff she worked with, going so far as to visit a small demi-fae village called Mistward to better understand their plight.

The same place where Evalin returned from now, due back any moment.

Far too close to the border of Doranelle and that heinous Fae-Queen Maeve, Eleanor thought with irritation. Maeve’s unexpected fascination with Evalin had left everyone in the Ashryver estate unsettled, the ancient queen’s wickedness preceding her. 

The sooner Evalin was home, the better.

Waving her hands, Eleanor flicked the excess bits of dye and diluted urine from her fingers before gripping the fabric taut again, brushing her leg against the woman next to her.

The tune they were singing came to a slow end, fading on both her tongue and those of the women around her. Shifting her gaze, her eyes landed on one of the younger servant girls at the end of the row who quickly selected another, slapping the fabric in time, and began to sing jovially, her broad smile contagious.

Eleanor almost snorted at the song the girl had selected, sung in the common tongue--a tale of a handsome fae lord who had come to town to woo the prettiest lady and sweep her away off to his fine kingdom.

_Oh, he comes o’er hill and dale, _

_Sword strapped right,_

_Bonny and bright,_

_Come to bid his tale--_

_Gods help any woman foolish enough to run off with one of the fae males, _she thought harshly, _With their immortality and brute strength . . . even if they aren’t difficult on the eyes._ Not that she and Evalin had taken a habit of watching the visiting emissaries ride in, speculating on what was beneath those fine tunics--

Even caught up in the song and her work Eleanor didn’t miss the servant’s door opening or the soft scrape of boots as Evalin peeked her head into the room, her turquoise eyes searching as she scanned the room.

Relief flooded her.

Home and safe.

Tossing up a hand she waved Evalin over, who must have just arrived as she was still clad in her traveling dress, a cloak wrapped about her slender shoulders.

Watching her cousin’s approach, Eleanor immediately noted that her normally slim, proud shoulders were tight and her lovely mouth seemed pinched, even as she smiled sincerely at her. Sensing something amiss, she rose from her seat, leaving her portion of the fabric on the table to be rapidly swept up by surrounding hands.

“Greetings, cousin,” Evalin chimed, reaching out delicate hands to wrap around Eleanor and pull her close, the smell of smoke and the forest wafting from her cloak, “I am so very glad to see you.”

“As am I.” Pushing away, Eleanor looked over Evalin once, furrowing her brow in concern, the formality, the tight posture-- “Eva, is everything all right?”

Evalin’s eyes flickered behind them toward the servents, her pink lips down turning slightly—no, it wasn’t—but this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

Eleanor was about to suggest they go somewhere to talk when Lucielle, an elderly servant whose hair had once been as fiery as her temper, sent a knowing look across the table at the two princesses.

“Your Majesties,” she chimed, slipping away from the waulking table and dipping into a slight curtsey, “if you wouldn’t mind, could you perhaps take the old dye out? It would save an old woman with terrible knees a trip up the stairs.”

“Of course, Lucielle,” relief flooded Evalin’s face, her shoulders loosening, “we’d be happy to help.”

“Oh good, good, such lovely, kind ladies both of you.” The woman waved a withered hand over her shoulder. “There’s only a few bowls that need to go. Pour them in the buckets and dump it off into the grass.”

“Yes, of course,” Eleanor murmured, watching Evalin with an eagle’s gaze, “we’ll go now.”

* * *

“Bloody whore,” Eleanor swore as she slammed the buckets of dye and urine down on the battlement, her regal face set in a cool rage. If she ever got her hands on that dark queen--“How dare she address you like that?”  
  
“Language, Elle,” Evalin reprimanded, sending a long glance at the guards at the edge of the battlements. Their attention was averted from the princesses as they had been trained, but they still had ears. “And . . . it is what it is. She would listen to none of my pleading.”  
  
“Of course not,” Eleanor quipped, her sweet voice harsh as she threw one of the buckets they had carried up the stairs over the battlement walls and onto the grass below, splashing the ground with green dye and the urine used to set it. “How dare anyone call out the illustrious Maeve on her brutal rule.”  
  
Evalin had recapped the hardships the demi-fae faced, the scorn they received from both the humans and the fae. A people caught between two races with no home of their own--many of whom spent their lives trying to win the favor of the fae queen only to live their days out in poverty in the small rural villages between the human and fae lands.

“It would be a blessing on this kingdom and the next if she’d rutting keel over,” Evalin paled at the insinuation, even as Eleanor hissed in fury, “Gods above know that royal bit—”  
  
“Eleanor,” Evalin warned again, ever the water to Eleanor’s fire, “Ears, cousin. Ears.”  
  
“Piss on them,” she shot back, her vision nearly red as she thought on the fae queen. “If she’s so offended by my words then Maeve can come here and address it with me, but Gods know she won’t leave that stone throne or the harem of pretty warriors she collects.”

Evalin cringed as the words flowed past Eleanor’s lips.

But what reaction had she expected when recounting such news?   
  
Not only was Evalin the crown princess of Wendlyn and Eleanor’s greatest friend, she carried the bloodline of Mab, which entitled her to more respect that Maeve had ever given.

And going so far as to bargain with Evalin about her firstborn in exchange for the demi-fae’s rights--

“You shouldn’t be going back to Mistward, Eva.” She shook her head, the gall of the queen to try and barter with Evalin’s future child . . . “Stay as far away from the woman as you can.”  
  
“They are my friends, Elle,” Evalin murmured, running a hand through her golden locks as she glanced towards the mountains and the village that dwelled deep within, as though she could see all the way to that fortress, “and no one else will stand for them.”  
  
“And of your own safety?” She knew Maeve wouldn’t be so foolish as to attack a crown princess, but using magic to coerce-- “That has to be taken into account too.”

“I know, Elle,” she placed a hand on her stomach, as though her thoughts drifted to the life that would one day grow there, to the life that Maeve had so casually predicted. “I know.”

“Foul demon woman,” Eleanor grumbled as she lifted third bucket of dye to dump over the battlements edge, perhaps it was best her cousin was going to Terrasen, if for no other reason to be away from gods damned Maeve, “I hope I never see the likes of her.”  
  
“Me either, Elle.” Evalin shook her head, her honey-colored locks catching the light of the fading afternoon sun, before smiling up at Eleanor, finally, a true smile. “Though I am glad to see you. I’ve missed you in our weeks apart.”  
  
“Me too Eva, the castle has been too quiet without you.”  
  
A laugh.  
  
“I thought you’d quiet enjoy your time alone without me tailing after you.”  
  
“Well, a bit,” Eleanor conceded, smiling mischievously, “though with word of you and Prince Rhoe’s engagement I haven’t been able to be away from even the mention of you.”  
  
A delicate blush rushed up the princess’s cheeks as she averted her gaze from Eleanor.

_Better_, Eleanor thought as she watched her cousin nervously run her fingers over her cloak, her mind no doubt lost to the prince who awaited her across the sea.

“Let’s celebrate your return tonight and stay together, like we did as children.” Something sparked to life in Evalin’s eyes at that, at the long conversation they would have through the night, the mischief they might get into.

“Yes, let’s.” She rose from where she leaned against the stone and watched Eleanor, her eyes finally full of the mirth and warmth Eleanor was accustomed to.

She mulled on the thoughts of Maeve, of the idle threats she’d made to her dear cousin as she walked over and picked up the final bucket of waste, testing its weight in her hand.  
  
“Do you know what I say, Eva?” she inquired, swinging the bucket and sending its contents sloshing all over the stone as she stomped towards the edge of the battlements, the image of the dark-haired queen sharpening in her mind.

Evalin turned her attention back to Eleanor, her mouth opening as though to speak, her hand lifting as though to stop her.  
  
“Elle, wait—"  
  
She lifted the bucket above her head and smiled ferally. “Piss on Maeve.”

Ignoring her cousin’s warning, she slung the contents of the bucket over the wall with a flick of her arms, willing somewhere, somehow that damned queen also had a bucket of green dye and piss being dumped on her.

A loud splash sounded as the liquid splattered down the stone, followed almost immediately by a soft grunt of surprise.

She froze.

Evalin cringed, even as she couldn’t help the amusement that darted across her face. “You threw it over the wrong side, cousin.”  
  
Embarrassment flooded Eleanor as she realized in her fury she’d thrown the waste not onto the grass but onto the street below the battlement, the one that led to the palace gates. Right atop some poor fool strolling up the path at the wrong moment.  
  
Blinking in shock, she braved a look down the side of the battlements to see a tall figure below, soaked in the urine and dye she’d tossed over the side, his fine grey cloak stained a blotchy green. He was armed to the teeth, daggers and swords adorning his body, an intricate bow strapped across his back along with a large pack. Someone who had been on the road for a long time.   
  
With growing horror, she watched as he pulled his hood free with predatory ease, revealing pointed ears and long blonde locks that were now also tinged green and most certainly smelled like urine.

He turned his head upwards to see where his unexpected shower had come from—

_Beautiful_, was the only thought that flitted through Eleanor’s mind as she took him in, devastatingly beautiful and undoubtedly fae.

Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to move, the breath rushing out of her as she took in his features, the tawny eyes, the broad shoulders and shapely throat encrusted with black markings—

And hanging loosely atop his tunic was a silver medallion now also dripping in murky green, a medallion in the shape of an owl that indicated the ruling house of Doranelle--  
  
Evalin was now next to her, a hand covering her mouth as she muttered, her eyes wide.

“‘Oh, piss on Maeve indeed.”  
  
A hole opened up beneath Eleanor as she blinked, breaking eye contact with the fae male before quickly stumbling away from the battlement’s edge, her bucket tumbling to the ground in front of her.

She’d gotten her wish, no doubt. She’d just soaked one of Maeve’s soldiers in dye and urine.

She slid down the battlement wall and placed her head in her hands, ignoring the stifled chuckles that quickly turned into full belly laughs from Evalin.

Couldn’t she keep her damned mouth shut? 

* * *

Evalin wasn’t certain Eleanor’s face would ever return to its natural shade as they wound down the staircase back to the bottom floor of the palace. No, she assumed she’d probably stay tinged pink until the darkness claimed her.

She’d tried to warn her that she was dumping the bucket off the wrong side of the wall.

And, as was Eleanor’s style, the rancid mixture had splashed all over one of Doranelle’s soldiers, no doubt from Maeve’s personal guard.

Her stomach had dropped at the sight of him, an uneasiness settling over her with his sudden appearance.

Eleanor had merely muttered “Traitorous Gods” before swiping up the bucket and rushing down the stairs, her skirt swishing as she took them two at a time.

No doubt her brother Glaston would be less than pleased with their cousins’ actions. He’d grown cold since their father’s death and his ascension to the throne--the young man she’d loved so fiercely as a child was now a shell of who he’d once been.

His coldness tended to manifest as criticisms of herself and Eleanor. Mostly wild, free Eleanor. He was going to be furious.

Not that anything could be done to right it now.

“Majesties, there you are,” an old woman crowed as she rounded the corner of the hallway and spotted the two Ashryver princesses making their way down the hallway, “Your presence is requested at dinner tonight, and seeing as you’ve been on the road all day, Evalin,” a look towards her dusty cloak and scuffed, muddy boots,” you need to bathe and change.”

Old Nan was as stalwart and round as she’d ever been, her harsh eyes buried beneath bushy brows as she looked over both girls with that assessing gaze. Evalin instinctively straightened her spine, correcting her posture.

Eleanor beside her made no attempts to remedy hers.

Evalin had to resist the urge to reach out and nudge her, a gentle reminder to keep them both out of trouble--

The old woman stopped her approach suddenly, tentatively sniffing the air before gasping, “Is that . . . urine?”

Evalin tried to keep her face neutral as she heard her cousin clear her throat, smoothly slipping into a protected position behind her, letting her take the brunt of their nursemaid’s fury.  
  
“Nan, please—” Evalin began, trying to placate the old woman before her temper flared, knowing it would likely be unfruitful-

“Eleanor!” A reprimand, sharp and unforgiving. “I’ve told you before, princesses do _not_ waulk fabric. Lucielle will be hearing of this. I’ve told her again and again to not let you sully your hands with the piss of servants.”  
  
“And _I_ order you to leave her out of it.” Eleanor snarled from her position behind Evalin, still cleverly hidden as she peeked up over her cousin’s shoulders and narrowed her brows, “Princesses may do as they like, need I remind you.”

An argument as old as the castle itself, one Eleanor and old Nan had had from the time Eleanor had been able to muster the word “no”.

Evalin could already feel the headache creeping in.

She desperately needed to bathe, to sort through her thoughts concerning the conversation she and her aunt had a week before, when, over tea, she’d nonchalantly inquired after the prospect of her and her betrothed’s future heir, violet eyes smoldering as she’d carefully gauged Evalin’s reaction.

When she’d presented the idea that, should she bring her heir to Maeve for training, she’d gladly grant the demi-fae access to Doranelle and rights to all its splendors, as Evalin had been tirelessly working to achieve over the previous years.

The conversation had left her feeling oily, eager to depart Doranelle and return to Wendlyn where she might confide in someone she trusted, in Eleanor, what had been asked of her, in private and without the watchful eyes of her family or the fae.

And now with one of her soldiers arriving here at the palace within an hour of her return home—who was now covered in dye and refuse thanks to Eleanor’s careful hand—there was much for her think on.

“Nan,” Evalin interrupted the argument beginning to build around her, reaching a soft hand out for her nursemaid, “I would very much like to bathe and have Eleanor help me dress if you’d be willing.”  
  
Nan’s dark eyes narrowed with simmering fury but she nodded anyway, sidestepping the young princesses and allowing them to pass.

“Be quick Majesty,” she called after, wiping her hands in the apron at her waist, “we’ve a guest tonight.”

“Wonderful,” Eleanor muttered under her breath, only hissing slightly as Evalin surreptitiously stepped on her toe, silencing her.  
  
Evalin had assumed as much, knowing precisely who their guest would be. She’d known it from the moment she had noted the tell-tale grey clothing of the warrior from earlier, the fine weapons strapped across him.

He wasn’t an ordinary foot soldier, but one of Maeve’s bloodsworn. The medallion was only a courteous marker for anyone who did not know of them. But any who did . . . it was not hard to identify them, lethal and vicious in the way they moved, their ancient presences near palpable. 

Sent, no doubt, at the behest of her aunt.


	2. Chapter 2

Eleanor tugged roughly at the laces of Evalin’s dress, muttering her annoyance beneath her breath. “Of course we’re to host one of her lapdogs. I suppose we’re to lay out a fine bed for him and perhaps a golden water bowl as well—”

“Eleanor,” Evalin chided, glancing away from the mirror and back over her shoulder, “we are to act as accommodating hosts regardless of our personal feelings toward his Queen.”

Eleanor huffed, heat rushing through her cheeks.

Like hell she’d be an accommodating host, she thought drily, she’d rather run him out of the castle with a stick, send him back to his dark mistress in the fabled land beyond the mountains where he belonged.

Even if his strong jawline and tawny eyes had stirred something . . . more . . . in her.

She ignored the phantom flicker of enticement that zipped through her and she continued to lace up Evalin’s bodice.

“Perhaps Glaston will have him sent away after dinner.” She tied off the last of the ribbons crisscrossing the back of the azure gown before reaching for the neat pile of golden hairpins beside her, easing them into Evalin’s curls one by one. “And send along a sweet little note detailing our feelings regarding his visit: ‘Dear Maeve, thank you for making your threat more pronounced by sending one of your favored members of your harem to us immediately after returning my dear sister. In the future, kindly try to pretend to not be the heinous hag that you are and stay put in your drab city of stone. Sincerely, The King of Wendlyn.” She snorted. “A good start, no?”

“Eleanor,” Evalin’s voice was exasperated but Eleanor swore she heard the slightest hint of amusement and caught a glimpse of upturned lips in the mirror as she finished pinning her golden curls. “If you’re going to send such a letter, at least be sure you include her proper title: _Queen_ Maeve.”  
  
“Hag Maeve.”  
  
“Mistress of Doranelle.”  
  
“Unholy Witch of the North.”  
  
“Her most illustrious Majesty.”  
  
“Spider of the Wood, best dealt with by using the bottom of a boot—”  
  
Evalin coughed, trying to cover her laugh, her turquoise eyes shimmering in amusement. Eleanor hummed her victory as she adjusted the last of Evalin’s curls and stepped back, admiring her handwork.

Where Maeve was an insufferable immortal cow, Evalin was a rare and coveted golden heron, proud and beautiful. Prince Rhoe had never stood a chance. 

“Well, off with you,” Eleanor flicked a wrist over a shoulder towards the tall and intricately carved door that led out of Evalin’s chambers. “You wouldn’t want to keep his Majesty or his royal guest waiting. Do pour something foul in his wine for me, perhaps a pinch of mandrake—”  
  
“Oh no, don’t you even contemplate it,” Evalin quipped, her shoulders tightening as she looked Eleanor over, an aura of command slipping into place, the aura that would one day lend itself to her rule as Queen, “If you even consider the idea of not attending this dinner . . .”

“What? Glaston will have me contained to my chambers? Force me to--” she gasped mockingly, a hand fluttering to her mouth, “--drudgery duty? Oh no, what ever shall I do if I have to waulk more fabric?”

She waved a dismissive hand, let her cousin punish her as he saw fit.

What was the worst he could do?

Make her mop the floors? Sit through more nasally history lessons with her childhood tutor Randor?

No, she was quite content not facing one of the warriors that poised such a threat to her dearest friend, content to remain quietly in her room so that her damnable mouth didn’t instigate something more than Glaston’s irritation.

She suspected the warrior would be wearing gravy in addition to the piss and dye if she attended this dinner.

“Elle,” Evalin’s voice was laced with warning, a sound that Eleanor was certain her future children would become accustomed to very quickly, “dress now so we can go.”

Eleanor sniffed disdainfully, sidestepping Evalin as she made her way toward the large canopy bed and gracefully eased into a lounge across the delicately embroidered duvet. “Oh, I fear I’ve taken ill cousin, a right case of the pox. I regret to inform you I won’t be able to attend dinner tonight.” She rolled over onto her back, staring at the canopy above her. “Do send my best regards though.”

Yes, a cat nap and tea sounded rightly delightful, especially if she could manage to sneak a few sugar-dusted pastries from the kitchen.

Eleanor barely registered the movement beneath her before she found herself sliding off the bed as the covers beneath her fled. She plopped unceremoniously onto the floor with a yelp, scowling at the golden bedding in Evalin’s manicured hand.

“Get dressed, Elle.”

“I do not wish to,” she quipped in return, a streak of stubbornness washing through her, “and since I am a princess, I do as I please.”

The argument she had used time and time again since she was a child.

Most times it proved successful, even against her more formidable foes.

Evalin’s brows furrowed. Delicately, she dropped the fabric to the floor and planted her hands firmly on her slim hips before approaching Eleanor with a knowing look on her delicate features.   
  
“Get dressed or I will tell Glaston who, exactly, let that entire flock of geese into the spring masquerade two years ago. The one where Duke Marwick nearly lost an eye?”

Ouch.

Well, when she put it that way.

“Fine,” Eleanor rose, brushing bits of invisible dust off her gown, frowning at her still emerald-tinged nails. “But I will not be happy about it. Perhaps I’ll visit the apothecary and get a pinch of mandrake to poison his tea myself.”

* * *

The water Gavriel dumped over his head was refreshingly cool in the stifling summer heat as it ran in long torrents down his bare neck and shoulders. Gingerly, he reached for one of the vials of soap a set of young female servants had brought him, giggling and fumbling as they’d stared at him before sloppily curtsying and rushing back down the hall.

He’d sighed in quiet exasperation.

Perhaps his Queen should have sent Vaughan or Lorcan in his place, both were better suited to deal with the affections and pining of young women. They enjoyed such attention.

Gavriel, however, would have much preferred a quiet retreat with no flirting women . . . and to not smell of . . . urine.

He sighed again.

Dumping the soap directly onto his wet hair he lathered it, relieved to find it did not smell of anything atrociously sweet. Pulling his hand away, he was amused to find the bubbles were a rich emerald.

The young woman’s aim had undoubtedly been remarkable.

He had expected some resistance with his arrival, at least an air of distrust from the Wendlyn nobles given the nature of his visit in regard to Evalin Ashryver. He hadn’t expected to be doused in a torrent of urine and dye, however. And by a petite blonde with the most striking features he’d ever seen, no less.

An Ashryver noble no doubt.

She had looked like Princess Evalin but sharper and wilder, her eyes a bit smaller and more angled and her lips a plump pink line that he imagined sat in a delicate pout when she wasn’t fuming.

He’d heard her furiously grousing about his Queen as he’d approached before she’d thrown the bucket and splashed him with its contents before he could react.

He’d only been able to stare at her in disbelief as she watched him with an expression caught somewhere between horror and fury before disappearing beyond the stone, Princess Evalin’s laugh resounding across the battlement.

Honestly, he’d half expected the girl to throw the bucket at him as well.

He had felt oddly sheepish approaching the soldiers at the gate smelling of piss and dyed the color of evergreens. The looks of disbelief and horror that had washed over their features had detracted from any of the fear that usually came with his arrival.

He’d only been relieved that Fenrys hadn’t been there to howl his amusement.

To his surprise, King Glaston had immediately welcomed him into the castle and had looked him over with quiet mortification before swearing he’d discover who had dumped refuse onto him. He’d then quietly offered him a room where he could freshen up and scrub the dye and . . . other substances from his person and clothes.

Glancing sidelong to the pile of clothing beside the wash bin Gavriel sighed, he was fairly certain his tunic would never be the same shade of grey it had been. Fortunately, Glaston had offered him clean garments for the dinner he was to attend and had said a servant would tend to the washing.

Not that he was sure he’d ever see his clothes again if either of those young servants were assigned to the task.

He dumped another pitcher full of water over his head and found that the rivulets of the water were still a vibrant emerald. He was going to need more soap.

* * *

Of course, Glaston had found it imperative that he seat her right across from the broad-shouldered warrior, right in the bask of the candlelight too, giving her a detailed view of his too-pretty face, the sharp planes illuminated by the soft glow.

Eleanor didn’t fail to notice the remnants of green dye that still tinged the male’s golden locks however, even if he’d successfully washed the stench of piss away.

Small victories, she thought smugly as she took a sip from her elderberry wine, the vintage that Glaston only had brought out when the most notable of guests arrived.

Too bad Evalin hadn’t given her a chance to drop down into the kitchen to look for some type of herb that might loosen his stomach a bit.

She watched him sip from his cup, his tawny eyes respectfully averted from her, roaming aimlessly across the large dining hall. Perhaps if she bumped the table just so she might be able to send the decanter of wine spilling into his lap—

“What do you say, Eleanor?”  
  
She froze, having entirely tuned out the conversation as she glared daggers at the male before her. She quickly took a sip of wine before turning her attention to Glaston, fixing her cousin with an easy and polite smile as she felt Evalin stiffen beside her.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

Her cousin’s lips downturned disapprovingly, his turquoise eyes flickering with annoyance.

Glaston’s broad face had only grown harsher with each year of his rule, the handsome features slowly settling into a permanent scowl. Fortunately, his babe Galan had seemed to have taken after his olive-skinned mother, her beautiful features softening the harsh planes of his father.

“I was saying, Eleanor,” she hid the flinch from his tone well, “that it is most unfortunate that our guest Lord Gavriel,” _A lord, of course_, “was greeted in a such an unruly fashion upon his arrival. Lord Dennor was strolling near the palace when he saw the incidenct occur and mentioned that you might know who the culprit could be.”

Conniving pig.  
  
Of course Dennor had been present for the event, the ruddy lord with a hooked nose and pump middle who’d been furious with Eleanor ever since she declined his proposition of marriage. He’d fluctuated between making her life a living hell and showering her with trinkets to try and win her favor ever since.

Apparently, he was intent on having her hung this evening. Likely hoping that Glaston would finally have enough of her and dump her into his lap just to be rid of her.

She barely resisted the urge to turn and glare at the round little man who sat at opposite the end of the table, no doubt inflated with the pride that he’d caught her doing something wrong.

Well, two could play at that game.

Eleanor straightened her spine as the king continued.

“We have been unable to discover which servant girl was so careless as to pour refuse off the wrong side of the battlement,” she felt Evalin’s hand rest on her knee, a reassuring squeeze, “and I was curious as to inquire if you might know, given there was rumor of your waulking fabric this afternoon.”

Furious. Glaston was absolutely livid.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest clue, your Majesty,” she wiped delicately at her mouth with a pressed napkin, keeping her face neutral as she spoke in a light tone, “but I assume whoever did so was likely not aiming for our honored guest and must have lost their hold on the handle when they smelt the _enrapturing_ aroma of our dear Lord Dennor coming up the path.”  
  
She felt Evalin cringe beside her and didn’t miss the spark that went through Glaston’s gaze or the baffled, offended shriek from the lord. She knew she’d be punished for it but the sound of the other courtiers snickering beneath their breath would be well worth it.

If she hadn’t known better she would have also thought she saw the slightest tilt of the warrior’s mouth, even as the rest of his face remained impassive, almost bored.

She sipped delicately at her wine.

If she was going to burn she was at least taking someone with her.

Gaston completely ignored the comment.

“Lord Gavriel,” the king addressed the warrior instead, the damning witness in this case. Eleanor swallowed hard as she watched him tilt his head politely in acknowledgement, the movement too smooth to be anything but predatory--and they’d given him dinner knives? Foolish. “Do you recall what the serving girl looked like? Perhaps we can identify her and see to it that she is punished accordingly.”  
  
Eleanor was certain the male – _Gavriel_ \- was just waiting to sell her out so she braced herself, prepared for the hell wind that would sweep down upon her once Glaston knew for certain it was her. Evalin’s hand dug harder into her knee.

“Your Majesty, I am a lord in title only and though I am honored that you address me as such, it is unnecessary. I am only a soldier.” He watched Eleanor curiously, his tawny eyes bright. “And as for the servant girl, I’m afraid I am uncertain what she looked like. Dark hair, perhaps? Olive skin? I cannot recall. However, I do not believe she meant any harm and it would bring me great relief if she were not punished for a simple mistake. I am here to build relations with your kingdom, not to incriminate your servants, your Majesty.”

Polite and succinct.

How many years had this male been waging wars not only on the battlefield but in the court as well? He seemed well acclimated to both.

Eleanor tried not to let the shock creep onto her face as she watched the fae warrior before her. He’d certainly known that it had been her who had dumped the bucket and had, for some gods forsaken reason, chosen to not acknowledge it. 

She could hear Dennor’s flabbergasted muttering, no doubt furious she’d gotten away with it and still recovering from his wounded ego. She watched as the warrior dipped his chin respectfully to the king, briefly flickering his attention toward her before mildly returning to his meal.

“If you are certain, Lor—Sir Gavriel,” Glaston corrected himself, an air of confusion seeming to float about him, surprise almost. Evalin visibly deflated, “In any case, I would still like to remedy the unfortunate accident. I would like to offer you a host for the remainder of your time here, company if you will.”   
  
Well, at least Glaston was finally talking sense, Eleanor thought in relief. Having someone watch where the warrior prowled might make him less likely to do something foolish--

“—and I think our dear Eleanor would be ideal to escort you through our home. I’m certain my lovely cousin would be more than happy to entertain you through the duration of your stay.”  
  
It was like a bucket of ice had be dowsed down Eleanor’s back as she openly gaped at Glaston, all sense of refinement gone. Had he gone bloody mad? Evalin stomped gently on her foot, trying to get her to regain her composure.

“It would be the highest honor to have a Princess of Wendlyn as an escort,” Gavriel nodded respectfully towards Eleanor, something like amusement flicking through those golden eyes. “I thank you for your hospitality.”  
  
“It is no trouble, Sir Gavriel, we are honored to have you here.” Glaston looked a bit like the cat who had finally caught the canary, smug and content to glut himself on his kill. He cast her a pointed look. “She will meet you tomorrow morning at sunrise to explore the grounds and show you our noble kingdom.”

It took all of Eleanor’s control to not reach down the table and flip Glaston’s plate into his face.


	3. Chapter 3

If there was one thing Eleanor abhorred more than playing royal escort it was rising before the sun, forcing her body into wakefulness when all she wanted to do was remain clasped in the blissful hold of dreams.

And this was the third day of rising at such an unholy hour.

She’d thrown a shoe at Evalin that morning when she’d come into her room, throwing the curtains wide and telling her to rise before she was late for her appointment. It hadn’t helped that her dear cousin had brought a chilled bucket of icy water up with her after Eleanor had refused to budge the second and third time.

A bucket she’d promptly dumped over her and her bedding, sending her into a screeching fury as she’d flown from the bed, furious.

_At least you’re up_, Evalin had tutted victoriously before pointing toward the wardrobe, her riding clothes having already been laid out for her.

She was going to put mouse droppings in her slippers.

Shivering against the chill morning air, she pulled her shearling-lined cloak closer about her, attempting to stave off some of the cold. Why Glaston had felt it essential that she show their visitor the grounds before the rise of the sun was beyond her.

She steered her pale mount over one of the rolling green hills following an eddying brook deep into the king’s territory, Gavriel keeping pace with her but at a healthy distance as he’d done the days before, his silence nearly suffocating.

She’d been pointing out various landmarks and their history as they’d strolled, feeling more like a tour guide than coveted company as each day passed.

_Here was where my great-grandfather relieved himself and sipped from a flask when his duchess wife became overbearing,_ she thought sarcastically, looking over the field_, and here is where I bury the bodies of those who threaten my family. No, not there, a little to the right_.  
  
She’d half hoped she could lead him off a cliff and claim it an accident, though she highly doubted the male would fall for such a ploy.

Not with the way he moved, the way he took in his every surrounding, constantly evaluating and cataloging. Was it wise to show him their lands? Any defensive tactics they might have against Her Great Unholiness?

Not that it would matter much if all of Doranelle’s warriors were built like that.

Their soldiers were toothpicks in comparisons, bones for them to snack on.

Something inside Eleanor knew that wasn’t his purpose here though, even if her logic screamed against it. After days of watching him she’d gotten the impression he wasn’t here for a military advantage but for something else.

She’d been sour with him when he’d offered a hand to her as she mounted her horse, Lady Cecilia as she affectionately called the golden mare, earlier, ever the gentleman . . . male? She’d almost slapped it away before clambering into the saddle on her own instead. She might be a princess but she was no invalid.

He’d bowed his head respectfully before swinging flawlessly into his own saddle, the muscles beneath his tunic rippling as he’d adjusted himself. Muscles that Eleanor’s gaze kept snagging on as they rode into the wood, shifting as he guided his horse.

She couldn’t help but note them more and more as they spent time together.

What did Maeve feed them?

Perhaps she’d find out and start slipping it into the food of the guards and perhaps some of the skin-and-bone nobles that had been pestering her about her future ‘endeavors’—also known as her bidding and the coveted offspring she was expected to bear. If she was going to have to tolerate one of them, he might at least be nice to look at and touch.

And as long as it wasn’t Lord Dennor clamoring for her . . .

The thought of flitting away to Terrasen clanged through her mind.  
  
Rumor was the Terrasen men were just as lovely, their fae heritage still thick in their blood, and if one had caught Evalin’s attention . . . she could surely find herself a nice warrior to keep her bed warmed at night.

One that would make Glaston’s hair stand on end.

She almost chuckled at the thought.  
  
She sent another sidelong glance at Gavriel, appreciating the tawny eyes and golden skin. Perhaps she could find one with such fine coloring.  
  
“Is there something you’d like to ask?” the warriors deep voice inquired, the accent rolling and rich as he caught her stare. A blush raced up her cheeks. She directed her attention elsewhere, ignoring the hammering of her heart in her chest.

“Just wondering how you eat without puncturing your own lip with those fangs,” a nod towards the canines that flashed when he spoke, “I imagine it makes for a difficult time, Sir Gavriel.”

A soft smile.

“You get used to them, especially when you’ve never known anything else, Milady.”

_Did you get used to serving a bitch Queen as well, when you’d never known anything else_? she mused internally but settled for replying with a small “Ah.”  
  
The male grew quiet again, contemplative as he watched the scenery pass by.  
  
“Your Kingdom is lovely.”  
  
“I’m sure it pales in comparison to Doranelle.”  
  
“Different,” he brushed a hand along the base of a pale aspen, his fingers gliding over the bark, “but just as beautiful.”  
  
Insufferably polite. She almost wondered if she could get a rise out of a that composed manner of his, make him show a little bit of the predator that was no doubt lurking beneath his skin.

Only one way to find out.

“And our Court? Does it hold any light when compared to the splendor of Doranelle?”

“The same, different but just as splendid.”

Horse shit.

He was deflecting.

“Even with the array of conniving nobles vying for power and the throne?” Wendlyn had certainly seen its fair share of assassinations and coups. Not that anyone would dare try to usurp dear Maeve from her dark throne.

He quirked an elegant brow at her.

“Political intrigue is the same in all walks of life, and I have little taste for it. But . . . yes, there are similarities, though perhaps less frequent.”

_Because you’re conniving old bastards that never die? _

“I see.” She clicked her tongue, squinting at the sun as it slowly rose towards its apex in the sky. “And what of other things?” A nod to his clothes, a simple grey tunic that Eleanor was disappointed wasn’t stained green. “Your fashion, perhaps?”

“Also different. Less . . .” she could see he was searching for a word that she wouldn’t deem offensive, “cumbersome.”  
  
“Why, Sir Gavriel,” she mocked offense as she fanned herself with her hand, her lips tugging at the concern, “are you implying our human clothes with all our frills and laces aren’t practical?” She thought back on the spring fashion that had been presented to the royal family that winter, the petticoats and bodices made of taffeta and satin that took up an entire room.

She’d nearly passed out when they’d laced her in one of the gowns, almost tearing the damned thing when she tried to bend over to adjust her shoes. Evalin had made quiet quacking noises at her as she’d waddled about.

“I am a soldier and am not accustomed to such finery.” Eleanor ground her teeth as he continued in his pleasant tone, easily gaining his grip back on the conversation “Forgive me if I have given offense.”

“Oh, I’ve taken great offense,” she couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice as she thought on the gaudy clothes they’d tried to stuff her in, “such offense I might not recover.”

He sent her a questioning look, as though he wasn’t entirely certain if she were serious or not. She deadpanned at him.

“I only jest.”  
  
Some tension fled from his shoulders as he flashed her a small, wry smile, one that seemed less formal than the others he’d offered her that morning.

“I do see you have a preference for the color grey,” a nod to his tunic, “is there a reason you’ve chosen that particular color?” _Other than to symbolize you’re a mindless, heartless soldier._

“It is the color of my cadre, we all wear it as a unit,” a small quirk of his full lips, “though I do find removing stains from it tends to be quite complex.” He had not forgotten about her little incident then, choosing to address it with her without watching eyes.  
  
Eleanor retained her smile. If he wanted to play a game she was more than happy to partake.

“Any what of your décor? Do you keep up with the newest styles and furniture?”

“It is refined but traditional. We live with one foot in the wilderness,” a nod to the environment around him, “a taste for things a little less constrained and tame. Many of our decorations are valued items of history.”  
  
She gave him a once over, noting his dark blond locks as a question formed in her mind.  
  
“And your carpets? Do they match the drapes?”  
  
Gavriel wheeled on her, his eyes wide as he took her in, disbelief playing over his features. So, he was a traditionalist, not keen on the less savory aspects of humor. She filed the information away.

Sucking on a tooth she calmly added, “Forgive me, I mean your tapestries and rugs, are they matched in color or do you decorate based on the value of the item?”  
  
She tried not to look too triumphant as the male cast his glance away from her, as she swore a faint tinge of pink bloomed on those too-perfect cheekbones of his, as he curtly replied, “There is no specific means of decorating, it is as we see fit.”

She’d made him uncomfortable. How unfortunate.  
  
“Sir Gavriel, did you think I had inquired after something else? I am only interested in understanding your culture and ways, as I know far less than my dear Evalin.” She batted her eyelashes at him, willing innocence to her features.

A poised, calm Princess.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he replied, seeming to shake the shock from his features as they melded back into a neutral expression, his horse having drifted a distance from hers, “it seems my comrades and their . . . banter have put my mind in a less than ideal place.”  
  
Eleanor wondered which of his ‘comrades’ had a dirty mind and if they’d had a more elaborate sense of humor than the stoic male before her. Perhaps they were more attractive, though that would be difficult to achieve.

She’d opened her mouth to begin another tirade of inappropriate remarks when she heard distant shouting and a high, echoing scream that tore through the underbrush.

“What is that?” she inquired, swiveling her attention towards the commotion.

Before she knew what had happened, she felt her horse skitter beneath her, banking toward the tree in front of her as a large, feral boar tore free from the undergrowth, its tusks slashing as it bolted straight for her, blood gushing from its side.

Game that hunters had failed to fell. A poorly placed, shallow wound, just enough to enrage to beast.

She didn’t remember the moment Cecilia spooked or when she was bucked from the saddle, but she recalled tumbling to the soft grass, pain splintering through her shoulder and collarbone as the horse stomped down on her and she rolled, finding herself face to face with the charging creature.

Fear pierced her as she stared death rushing at her, unable to move as it rampaged towards her.

She braced for the impact, squeezing her eyes tightly and holding her breath, praying it would be swift.

The impact never came as a crack resounded throughout the space, the sound of a body collapsing and slumping harmlessly into the grass. The hot reek of blood assaulted Eleanor’s senses as she peeled an eye open, the open maw of the beast just before her, its eyes gazing unseeingly.

How? She sucked in a shuddering breath, shock racing through her. How?

Someone had a hand on her, was speaking her name, trying to get her attention—

“Your Highness! Are you alright?” It was Gavriel, kneeling close to her as he placed a hand on her uninjured shoulder, his tawny eyes assessing, scanning for injuries. “Where?” Reality reeled in as Eleanor looked between him and the beast.

He’d killed it instantly, snapped its neck with a golden shield he’d erected before her, its remnants still shimmering. The creature’s momentum had killed it instantly.

Something molten appeared in his eyes as he looked off towards the bushes, toward the sound of approaching horses and men.

She nodded numbly, trying to right herself.

Pain lanced through her shoulder and she couldn’t help the cry that escaped her as she felt bones shift. Hissing, she slumped back down, Gavriel’s hands still keeping her upright. She must have broken something, snapped it when the horse’s hoof had come down on her. 

“Princess Eleanor!” It was a young tracker who came stumbling through the bushes, his grey eyes wide in fright as he took her in. “You’re injured—” true panic there, she tried to keep her annoyance to a minimum, “My Lord, the Princess!”

It would be the talk of the evening. Lovely Eleanor bucked from her loyal mount and nearly skewered by a boar all while in the company of one of Maeve’s soldiers. Wonderful.

Others materialized behind him, men dressed in Lord Dennor’s colors of rusty red and gold, their eyes growing wide as they took her in, laying there in the grass, the fae warrior kneeling over her. Of course it had to be him.

Where was Evalin when she needed her to be a voice of reason to these fools?

Panic wasn’t going to help anyone, especially not her. 

And with the scene they’d stumbled upon, a felled boar and her collapsed like some tragic, helpless damsel in the warrior’s arms.

Oh yes, it was going to be the talk of the castle.

More pain sliced through her shoulder, causing her to cry out as she panted, trying to immobilize the joint. If these men were to carry her back, the jostling—

She’d rather remaining laying in the grass.

Gavriel had not moved, however, his pupils dilated as he watched Dennor fly into view, his mustache twitching as his mount pawed from its sudden stop.  
  
“My lady,” Dennor immediately slid from his horse, his gullet nearly catching on the side of his saddle as he made for her, his eyes wide in fright as he approached her. “The damned beast! We must get you to a healer immediately!” He made as though he would reach for her before Gavriel’s voice cut him off.

“Do not move her.” That was the voice of a soldier and of a commander, and the tone surprised Eleanor. She watched as he looked up at Dennor, something like reproach flickering in his gaze as he glanced toward the boar. “It will need to be patched here to prevent further injury.”  
  
“And I suppose you will be the one to do that?” Dennor sneered, making Eleanor want to reach up and strangle the man, even if the pain of moving would send her into unconsciousness. It might be worth it.

Black spots were beginning to bloom in her vision anyway, as the adrenaline wore off and the pain began to cascade in. She couldn’t the little yelp as she tried to take a deep breath and was met with a slashing pain.

Dennor shot his attention to her.

“You’re injuring the lady! Put her down this instant.”

“No.”

Oh wonderful, an argument, very productive to getting her patched up. Her vision was growing wavery as Dennor continued on, Gavriel’s hold on her tight as he watched the man spew, his face growing redder by the second. She hadn’t noticed quite how broad the warrior’s chest was until she was pressed against it, the coiled muscle somehow comforting.

How much had the adrenaline altered her brain?

Something giddy in Eleanor emerged as the thought of what Dennor must’ve seen when he’d ridden into that field, his lovely princess in the arms of a fae warrior. How his manhood must have shriveled.

She would have laughed had it not hurt so rutting much.

Her vision had nearly depleted when a sudden warmth, bright and luxurious, flooded her arm, before she slipped into unconsciousness, grateful that the pain was gone. 

* * *

When Eleanor came to, confusion filled her as she found herself lying in her bed, mysteriously changed into a dressing gown, with the comforter tucked under her chin and the fading evening rays beginning to peak through her curtains.

How had she gotten here? Last she recalled she’d been heckling Gavriel, inquiring about his nether regions when—the boar.

The memories flooded her as movement flickered to the right of her bed.

“You’re awake,” Evalin’s relieved voice sounded as her soft, warm hands took her own, squeezing them tightly. “Are you all right? You scared the wits from all of us.”  
  
“Blame the horse,” Eleanor grumbled groggily, gently squeezing her cousin’s hand back reassuringly, “and the boar.” Evalin sighed as she sunk down into the chair she’d pulled beside the bed, the book she’d been reading hastily discarded.

“Is Cecillia all right?”

Evalin huffed a laugh.

“Yes, your precious mount was returned to the stables and thoroughly coddled after her daring rescue of you.”

“A boar was charging her, I really don’t blame her for fleeing. I would have too if I’d been able to get up.” She paused, thinking on Gavriel and Dennor, and their little argument. “What of Dennor? Please tell me Glaston reprimanded him—”  
  
Evalin’s face went taut. “The young tracker was punished, Dennor claimed it was his recklessness that caused it.”  
  
“Rutting bastard,” Eleanor groused, thinking on the poor boy who’d likely just lost his job because of the lord’s arrogance. She suddenly felt rather peaky. “I don’t know what Glaston sees in him.”

“Neither do I.”

“And Gavriel?”

“Well . . .” Eleanor narrowed her eyes, had Glaston sent Maeve’s flunky away as well? Blamed him for something that was clearly not his fault? He had been the one to save her after all.  
  
“He healed your shoulder, quite spectacularly I must say, better than our healers could.” Surprise filled her as she thought of the warmth that had encased her shoulder before she’d lost consciousness. Evalin fiddled with the corner of her book. “He checked you over to make certain you were all right.”

Heat blazed in Eleanor’s cheeks. Checked her over?

Evalin grew quiet, her eyes flickering to her book.

“Eva . . .”

“It was quite the sight, you know.” Evalin toyed with the sleeve of her gown, her voice growing almost . . tender, “Your tiny frame in his arms as he carried you back, looking rather dour as Dennor howled at him the entire way . . .”  
  
“No.” Eleanor gasped, heat flushing her cheeks as horror filled her. “Please tell me you’re kidding. Evalin!”

“Glaston was most impressed with his prompt attention, although not as much as the serving girls were, they were nearly swooning,” Evalin swiped a gold curl out of her face as Eleanor felt her stomach squeeze in embarrassment, “He’s being hailed as somewhat of a hero, if only for his ability to deal with Dennor alone.”  
  
Eleanor wanted to smoother herself, to crush the life out of her own chest so that she didn’t have to face the rumor mill that was clearly overflowing.

“He’s dropped by periodically to check on you.”

“I hope you told him I died!”

“Eleanor, he was only trying to help . . .”

“Oh, may the gods smite me,” Eleanor rubbed at her eyes, considering never leaving her room, hoping she’d at least never see the male again. The gods had something else in mind, however, as a knock sounded at the door and Eleanor shook her head violently at Evalin, willing her to lock it.

Evalin sent a look as though to ask her if she was truly going to be that callous.

She was indeed going to be.

Too late, the door swung open to reveal Gavriel, who bowed his head respectfully.

Eleanor wished the floor would swallow her whole. 


	4. Chapter 4

Eleanor had been avoiding the male like the plague, skirting around him in the palace like a mouse desperately fleeing a hunting feline. She’d been at this since their awkward exchange days prior when he’d come to check on her and she’d halfheartedly muttered her thanks before claiming she felt faint and shooing him out.

Not that he’d been seeking her out; on the contrary, he’d been a right gentleman about respecting her space. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of him since that night, and she fully intended to keep it that way until he departed.

Grousing internally, she pulled her scarf about her shoulders and frowned. Men weren’t allowed to be that endearing, weren’t allowed to be that sincere and certainly weren’t allowed to be that pretty. He should have been a ripe ass, full of ego and entitlement like the other men she’d had the misfortune of knowing.

It was unnatural.

Walking briskly, she slipped into the hallway and down the stairs, taking them two at a time as she shuffled toward the kitchen hoping to snag a tray of tarts and some stew before lunch was served. She’d been skulking around in the shadows, only leaving her room when she was certain she could avoid running into anyone. 

As far as Glaston was concerned she was still recuperating, healing from her unfortunate accident and unable to handle company and therefore free of her hosting obligation. Even as gossip ran rampant through the palace like a pox, every recollection of the tale growing grander and more outrageous.

These retellings had included such nonsense as the fae soldier having faced fifty feral boars with nothing more than his bare hands to protect their dear and precious princess. Eleanor had nearly wept when the tale had cycled back to her, Evalin in fits at the absurdity of it all as she recounted all the stories she’d gleaned.

Eleanor noted that it was most unfortunate they did not possess a moat in which she could drown herself and be rid of such nonsense. Perhaps if she died she’d return as a banshee, wailing her woes and drowning the servants who kept the wheel spinning. 

They’d learn to stop moving their lips then.

Eleanor was nearly to the kitchens when she heard the tap of footsteps and cursed as she glanced around. What if it was Gavriel? She could not bear to face the male any more than she could bear to sit through another of Dennor’s nasally speeches.

Quickly she darted to the great window on the left of the hall and slipped behind the golden curtains, pulling the thick fabric around her. Surely even the fae warrior wouldn’t notice her if she remained entirely still and held her breath?

She waited several long seconds, breathing slowly as she heard the footsteps pause before rapidly approaching. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head to the side as the curtain was torn back away from her. She could just pretend she wasn’t there---

“Elle, what in hell’s realm are you doing?”   
  
She peeled open one eye, relieved to see Evalin holding the curtain back instead of a certain golden-haired male. She deflated.

“I was dusting!” She ran her hand over the window, already immaculately scrubbed. “See? Good as new.”   
  
Evalin narrowed her eyes in a way that assured Eleanor that she didn’t buy into such nonsense for a second. “Are you still hiding from our guest?” Her cousin pointed a lovely finger at her slippers. “A word of advice: if you’re going to hide, do so in a way that your shoes aren’t sticking out from the bottom of your hiding spot.”  
  
“Did you ever consider that the curtains may have started wearing shoes?” Eleanor poked her head out from behind the curtain, glancing sidelong to ensure she and Evalin were alone in the hallway. “It’s the newest in Adarlanian fashion, as you should know.”   
  
Evalin rolled her eyes as she dragged Eleanor out from behind the fabric. “I’ll make sure to note it. When was the last time you left the palace? You look dreadfully pale.”

“Not since the incident, if that’s what you’re asking. Do not fear, dear cousin, I’ve taken to the idea of becoming a cryptid, pale and monstrous, lurking through halls at night and preying on the innocent.”  
  
“Enough nonsense out of you,” Evalin shoved Eleanor forward, “you’ll go outside this instant, or so help me.”  
  
“Fine, fine!” Eleanor grumbled, stumbling forward as her cousin guided her toward the archway leading to the gardens. “Might we grab tarts first? I’m famished.”  
  
“You’ve eaten nothing but sweets for a week,” Evalin clicked her tongue. “Too much sugar. Get something with more sustenance.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“Of course, Nan, forgive my ignorance.”

Evalin flicked her ear.

“Ow! Anneith’s bosom, Eva, I have need of that.”

“Then don’t call me Nan.” 

* * *

She’d still snuck a tart regardless of Evalin’s lecturing after they’d taken an early lunch, nibbling on the edge of the pastry as they strode through the extensive gardens. Many of the flowers were dormant with autumn beginning to take hold over the earth, but the gourds and changing leaves provided an easel of color for their enjoyment.

Eleanor sincerely hoped the winter might bring a rare ice storm, though with the temperate climate it was highly unlikely. It did not stop her from wishing for it though. She’d always had a love for the cold, for the scent of pine and snow she’d had the pleasure of experiencing once on a trip to one of the mountain estates that their family owned.

She’d always wished to live in it, to enjoy the brisk chill and warm herself by the hearth. Not the continuous drone of heat and humidity that Wendlyn provided. And perhaps she’d get the chance, if she chose to follow Evalin. Gods knew she’d been getting her fill of snow when she went north to Terrasen.

“You’re going to become a queen of ice,” Eleanor murmured as she strolled lazily down the path next to Evalin, “encrusted in snow and holly. We should add more fur to your wardrobe.”  
  
Evalin gave a small laugh, her slim shoulders shaking. “You do know there are summers in Terrasen, yes? It was quite lovely during my visit.”

“Oh yes, they brought you there to give you the impression of how lovely it is before it’s buried beneath heaps of frozen ice crystals,” Eleanor put a hand to her mouth, Ashryver eyes twinkling, “I do hope that Prince of yours will be enough to keep you thawed in the dark, frozen nights. I have heard he is quite . . . delicate.”

A lie. Eleanor knew just how athletic and strong the young Prince of Terrasen was, but what fun was acknowledging that when it came to teasing Eva?

“He . . . he’s just yet to grow into himself,” Evalin griped indignantly, giving a rare flush as she defended her husband. “He’s very lean, mind you, and fast as an adder.”   
  
“Mm, excellent in a battle but agility will do little when you are turning into an icicle,” she finished off her pastry and dusted the powdery sugar off her fingers. “You will be queen; however, you can always hold a tourney to acquire yourself a bed warmer. Or two.”

“I refuse to be as uncouth as my dear aunt,” Evalin’s lips downturned, her features pinching. “I have no intention of keeping men as pets for my own pleasures.”   
  
“Really? That’s the one thing I think that queen got right, I’d be quite content with a palace full of lovely, pretty men to do my bidding.”  
  
“Funny, considering you won’t even talk to one of those pretty males.”  
  
“Note the difference there, dear cousin, _males_ not _man_. I prefer mine mortal and capable of death. What point would there be if I couldn’t become a widow if the need were to arise?”  
  
Evalin stopped, looking incredulously at Eleanor. “You jest.” Eleanor kept her face neutral, willing seriousness to her features even as she felt a smile creeping onto her face. Evalin merely sighed and shook her head.

“Well, at least I shall never have to fear for your wellbeing. I’m starting to think I should be more concerned for your future love, however.”   
  
“That would be the wisest course of action.” She winked at her cousin, who gave a breathy laugh in reply.

“Nonsense. You speak nothing but nonsense.”

“Not nearly as much as the rest of the stuffy airheads in court,” Eleanor barely realized they’d wrapped around to the gardens in front of the palace, the training grounds stretching out before them where the palace guard sparred, the sound of practice swords clashing echoing across the grounds. “Have you heard the newest deliberations? Apparently, the latest argument is over whether the minstrels for the spring ball will wear blue or teal. It’s preposterous.”  
  
“I’m not even certain Glaston could tell the difference between those colors,” Evalin mused, stepping over a loose stone on the path. “He’s likely letting them bicker amongst themselves to buy himself a moment’s peace.”   
  
“Not a bad strategy, honestly,” Eleanor turned her attention towards the training grounds, hoping to spy some of the young and shirtless recruits training. “It’s the sole bit of proof that we’re related to soulless husk he’s become.”  
  
“He has changed in recent years,” Evalin agreed, longing entering her eyes as she no doubt reflected back on her brother’s youth when he’d been nearly as fierce as the two princesses in the garden. “Ruling has done him no favors.” Her voice trailed as though she thought to say more.

Eleanor took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. A decision had formed in her mind as she spoke, one she’d been mulling over for the last few days when she’d confined herself to her room to wait out the rumor mill.

What better time to tell her than now?

“I assure you will never become so unbearably stuffy, it’s not in your nature. Besides I will be there to shake sense into you if you ever start acting so foolishly.” She squeezed her hand once more, hoping to the gods her cousin understood.

Evalin wheeled on her, blue eyes sparkling at the implication. “You intend to come?”

Eleanor shrugged noncommittally, “I suppose Terrasen couldn’t be too dreadful,” she nudged Evalin gently, “especially if the men are lovely enough to enrapture someone as levelheaded as you are.”

Evalin took both of Eleanor’s hands in her own, true joy sparking across her lovely features. “Swear it to me, swear you’ll come, and we’ll never have to be apart.”   
  
Eleanor rolled her eyes before conceding. “I swear it, Eva, I’ll join you in your little castle of ice.”  
  
Evalin swept her into a hug that nearly squeezed the air from her, her cousin’s grip tighter than any vice.

“You have no idea what joy hearing that brings me,” Evalin stepped back, relief glazing her features, “to know you will be by my side. I could ask for no better news.”   
  
“Don’t forget, Eva we’ll still have to break it to Glaston.” Eleanor wasn’t exactly keen on telling her cousin and family that she’d be flitting off to a foreign land on a whim, especially when she hadn’t so much as asked their approval to do so. “We might want to serve him several decanters of wine before we broach the subject.”

“We’ll make it work, I swear it.”

“I’m certain, but in the meantime,” she nodded toward the training field, “I would like to continue our walk and enjoying the view.”

Evalin gave a high laugh before linking arms with her cousin. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your afternoon’s entertainment,” her voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper, “perhaps they’ll take off their shirts off if we’re lucky.”  
  
“That is the hope.” Eleanor murmured back just as quietly, her spirit lighter than it had been since Evalin’s engagement. “If needed I can throw a bucket or two of piss on them to encourage it.”

Evalin snickered.

They quickened their pace as they trailed down the stone path, keeping quiet as they approached on silent feet. The sound of swords clashing, and shouting grew louder as they approached, trying to keep their presences unknown. How many times had they made this very walk as teens, feigning interest in their training when all they cared for were the bodies doing the training.

“Oh look, Captain Liam’s even joined the fray,” Evalin’s eyes were fixed on the man she’d held unrequited love for the better part of her teen years, a fleeting infatuation that had crumbled when Evalin came to the harrowing realization that said captain had a wife and a child nearly her own age. “Must be someone keeping him on his toes if he’s getting involved.”  
  
Eleanor rose slightly on her tiptoes, trying to see past the dark-haired Captain’s heaving back as he circled his opponent, the sword in his hand held tight, his movements calculated. It must have been some new recruit with exceptional skill, she’d never seen the man so much as winded when he trained.

She leaned closer, willing Liam to move more quickly so she could get a peek at just who was giving him a run for his money—

She sucked a in breath of disbelief, her eyes glazing as she caught sight of Gavriel circling on the other side of the captain, looking all the world like a storm of seduction that had her clamping her knees together. She hissed. What god deemed it appropriate to give him a torso like that, rippling with lean muscle? Even in his thin shirt she could see the panes of his taut stomach, smooth and no doubt glistening with sweat.

And his hair, pulled up in that half ponytail showing off that elegant jaw--

Were all the fae this forsakenly beautiful?

It was a sin for someone to be that damned attractive. Tawny eyes flickered briefly towards her before focusing back on his opponent as the captain rushed him in his moment of distraction.

“By the gods, Eva,” she wheezed, her eyes trailing over the thin shirt that clung to his torso, “look at him.” She missed the look of amusement that overtook her cousin’s features, even as her own eyes kept trailing toward the training warrior. “He’s not real, I swear it to all the gods.”

She watched, transfixed, as he easily sidestepped Liam’s blow and matched it with one of his own, sending the Captain of the Guard flying. Liam hit the ground with a resounding thump and let out a groan of pain. Gavriel immediately sheathed his training blade ad strode forward to offer a hand to the grounded captain, easily lifting him to his feet.

Evalin clicked her tongue. “He’s a bit broad for my taste.”

Eleanor’s dress suddenly felt too warm, too tight and chaffing, the words mindlessly tumbling out of her slack jaw as she murmured, “I wouldn’t mind if he walloped me like that.”

“Excuse me?” Evalin inquired, laughter coating her tone. Realizing she’d said the words aloud, Eleanor snapped her mouth shut, heat racing up her cheeks.

“I mean training, perhaps I should ask him to train me,” she finished weakly, her knees wobbling a bit beneath her dress. He was nothing but a menace in her life, a pest that needed to take its beautiful self back to Doranelle at the earliest convenience—

Gods, even the way he moved was enticing. She watched as he strode for the table set beside the training ring, his thighs and backside lovely in his tight breeches, and lifted a pitcher of water and promptly dumped it over his head before shaking the excess water free, sending glittering droplets dancing into the late afternoon sun. She nearly squealed. She needed to leave right that moment—

“Come on, Eva,” she started tugging at her cousin, willing her to move as she dug her feet into the stone path beneath her. “We should head back to the palace, go do some needlework or something, anything—”

“Why?” Evalin’s lips had quirked as she remained solidly rooted to the spot. “He’s headed this way to say hello, I think we should stay and greet him.”  
  
“Eva, _please_—”

“Your Highnesses.” Eleanor snapped her attention towards Gavriel as he approached, his tawny eyes alight with the rush from sparring, broad shoulders shifting beneath his now translucent shirt—had he no decency? “I am glad to see you are finally well enough to be up and about, Princess Eleanor.” He stopped opposite the path and inclined his head toward her. “I assume your shoulder is not giving you any trouble?”   
  
She swallowed, letting go of her hold on Evalin’s arm before turning to face him, scrambling for the words. “It’s . . . fine.”

How terrible would it look if she just bolted for the palace? She could claim she’d got a severe case of nausea, feign illness again--

“Good, I had hoped as much.”

“I see you’re training,” Evalin noted, nodding towards the training ring, something tightening in her voice, “I assume our training protocols are satisfactory to you. I know they are vastly different than what you are accustomed to in Doranelle.”

Eleanor hadn’t expected the bite that came with the question, the way Evalin had straightened her shoulders as she stared him down. It took her a moment to realize the reason for Evalin’s discomfort—she feared he was gleaning tactical information, noting their forces and their abilities.

Understanding filled Gavriel’s tawny eyes.

“Ah, you’re correct, Highness,” he nodded over a shoulder, looking almost sheepish as though he hadn’t thought about what he was doing. “Some of the men asked if I’d be willing to show them a few of our maneuvers during my stay, I’d hoped to help them, and as I’ve had a large amount of free time . . .”

Even though it shouldn’t have, hearing the words from him gave Eleanor comfort, his tone lacking the manipulation and hatred she’d expected of one of Maeve’s personal soldiers. It seemed Evalin felt the same as the tension fled her shoulders, her tone softening.   
  
“Then please continue, do not let our presence hinder your drilling. I imagine the men are grateful for any instruction you have to offer them.”

“I’m happy to teach what I know.” He gave a polite smile, “It was a pleasure to see you both.”

“Likewise, my lord,” Evalin said with a curtsey, something like shame flitting over her features. From the way Gavriel bowed graciously in return, Eleanor got the feeling he did not blame her for the suspicion. 

Which was such foolishness, given that he was one of Maeve’s personal guard.

“And, my Lady Eleanor,” a nod to her, “might I expect to see you tomorrow for our early morning ride?”

Eleanor went rigid. “Err, I suppose so.”

“Then I shall meet you in the stables at sunrise.” Another smile brightened by golden sunlight. “Hopefully we can avoid any wild boars this time.”


	5. Chapter 5

Much to her own surprise, Eleanor found herself up at dawn, slipping easily from bed and quickly dressing in her riding leathers as a sliver of excitement pulsed through her. For the past week she and Gavriel had ridden about Varese discussing all manner of topics. And, while sometimes mundane, his company had proved to be enjoyable. She was certain her eagerness stemmed from the fact that today they were to head along the river that flowed towards the east of the city to an abandoned mill, a favorite spot of hers she rarely got to visit, and certainly not with so little accompaniment.

His pretty presence was only a mildly pleasant addition, especially because it permitted her to travel wherever she pleased.

Eleanor’s unusually early schedule had been an even greater surprise to Evalin who had slipped into the room minutes later, a bucket of water sloshing in her hands, no doubt summoned to be icy as Terrasen snow.

The princess did little to hide the surprise on her face.

“You’re awake,” Evalin nodded at the few dim rays filtering through the window, suspicion on her features, “and the sun hasn’t even risen yet.”

“I am.” Eleanor raked a comb through her hair, straightening the delicate strands before pulling them into a long braid that cascaded down her slim shoulders. “Is there a problem, cousin?”

She locked eyes with the other girl, daring her to make mention of her sudden preference for rising early. 

Evalin said nothing.

Instead she smirked knowingly and gently set down the bucket by the doorway, arms crossed over her chest - a stance Eleanor had long equated with smugness. She barely contained the scowl.

“Is there something I can be of assistance with?”

The smirk grew, turquoise eyes sparkling. “Not in the slightest.”

“Good.”

Keeping her composure, Eleanor turned back toward her mirror and adjusted her braid again, ensuring no stray pieces were loose. There was no sense in letting her cousin heckle her about her sudden dedication to her role as host. Not that Evalin should have been surprised in the slightest, Eleanor had never kept her appreciation for the more incompetent sex a secret.

Especially when it came to exploiting them for their aesthetic appeal.

The visiting fae male had certainly won her favor in that regard, the memory of the lean torso beneath his soaked shirt slipping to the front of her mind, the panes of that inhumanly beautiful face--

“You’re blushing.”

“Hogwash. Get out.”

Her cousin held up her hands in surrender, even as the smile on her face named her the victor.

“Very well, enjoy your little outing. And Elle? Try to stay out of the path of any stray boars, unless of course you’re planning to be carried home in those arms again, in which case I shall not stop you.”

Eleanor stuck out her tongue.

“I assure you the only boar that I will encounter this morning is you pestering me when you should be dozing delicately like the royal pain you are.”

“Perhaps we’ll trade places then.” A tilt of Evalin’s pale pink lips, “I shall take to sleeping till the afternoon and you can begin rising with the sun and wholeheartedly embracing your role as a princess of Wendlyn.”

Eleanor contemplated just how quickly her cousin could dodge if she chunked a brush at her. She was willing to bet she could peg her in the forehead well before she could evade. It was certainly worth trying.

Sensing her actions, Evalin quickly ducked out the open door behind her with a laugh, narrowly avoiding the gilded brush that hit the floor with a loud thud and skidded out into the hallway. She peeked around the doorframe, raising an eyebrow as Eleanor reached for one of the array of wooden boxes that contained her jewelry, certainly heavier and more likely to hit the target if thrown correctly.

“Ah-ah! Nan will be furious, that one was brought to you all the way from the southern continent! For your eighth birthday, remember?”

“Perhaps someone will gift me a new one after this one breaks.”

“Eleanor—”

The box flew high through the air before slamming loudly, albeit harmlessly, into the now closed bedroom door.

* * *

If her teasing hadn’t been enough reason to murder Evalin, this certainly was. Eleanor was going to smother her cousin with the poofiest, gaudiest pillow she could find. Rhoe would have to find a new bride by the time she was done beating her cousin senseless.

That was, if she could even get up off the ground. Perhaps if she played dead her tormentor would leave her be and wander back off to whatever hell he’d crawled out to have made him this brutal. Anything to stop the madness he was putting her through.

“Your Highness? Shall we take another break?”

Oh that tone, that humble, amused purr filled with concern that served as a mask for the slave driver that lurked beneath those pretty features. The lie of that enticing, sculpted chest that somehow seemed to draw in the midmorning sun, barely moving as he circled around her.

He wasn’t even winded.

Eleanor had known Gavriel’s presence was too good to be true, even if his golden face was still beautiful from the ground.

She sucked in another burning breath, her throat on fire. Her legs were not meant to move in such a way, it’d be a miracle if she were ever able to walk again, she’d be confined to a chair for the rest of her days--

“I’ll take your silence as confirmation.”

“No,” she took another heavy breath, stars flashing in her eyes, “just give me a moment, just a moment to catch my breath.”

A grunt of acknowledgement. Heartless, inconsiderate prick.

Her ass hurt to high hell. 

Rolling onto her stomach, she groaned and pushed herself upright, arms quaking beneath her.

Evalin had conveniently forgotten to mention that morning the tiny little detail that she’d made a request of Gavriel, and that they would not, in fact, be going on a ride that morning. Oh no, dear Evalin had taken it upon herself to ask Maeve’s personal demon to introduce her to swordplay. A shot at the little comment she’d made to her in the garden a week prior.

What in the name of all the gods had Eleanor done to deserve this?

Her legs wobbled as she righted herself, bits of dry grass sticking into the once-smooth strands of her disheveled braid. Shooting a glare at the male before her, she nearly gave him a filthy gesture. His composure was sure and steady, face locked in a neutral expression.

“Your balance is too shifted to your right side.” He stepped forward, extending a broad hand toward her, “We should correct that before we move any further.”

Eleanor slapped his hand away, grumbling. “My balance is perfectly well . . . balanced!”

The lack of expression on Gavriel’s face had her seeing red. How could someone remain so stone-faced? She swiped up her wooden blade and brandished it, glowering at the male.

“Again! Or perhaps you’re just not a very good teacher?”

Gavriel sighed, shaking his head as he dropped his own practice sword gently onto the ground. “Your stance is weak and you’re holding the blade incorrectly. You’ll only hurt yourself this way.” He raised a hand in her direction. “May I?”

She sneered at him but nodded her confirmation, dropping her arm as irritation pooled in her stomach. Arrogant male thinking himself superior to her because he could wave about a sharpened piece of steel-

Those thoughts came to a halt as a roughened hand landed surprisingly gently on her hip, causing her to suck in a startled breath as her heart jumped in her chest.

“What are you—”

“This way,” he nudged her hip to the left, shifting the weight more evenly between her legs as his other hand firmly but softly adjusted her shoulder. “And down here. Your weight should be evenly distributed; your opponent will have more difficulty knocking you off your feet. Especially given your stature.”

Embarrassment rushed through Eleanor, her cheeks flushing hotly. Just the feel of his hand on her hip sparked an ember she had never felt before, one that she knew would rapidly consume her, and the bastard was utterly blind.

Just as he’d been the entire week they’d spent together, either mindfully or obliviously missing her pointed stares and none-too-subtle ogling.

Fumbling for the words around the heat pooling in her core she spat, “You know, princesses aren’t supposed to learn how to fight. That’s what we have soldiers for.” A weak, halfhearted excuse, but one that Nan had drilled into her again and again.  
  
“An unwise choice,” Gavriel replied as he continued to adjust her arms, gently positioning her limbs so she stood more solidly. The stance felt unnatural, but she had to admit it was more grounded and stable. Eleanor eyed the fae as he stepped back and surveyed her, before making his way behind her. He’d become slightly more vocal in their time together, though his words were still few and far between.

The ember inside her extinguished at his words.

“Pardon?” Eleanor’s brow arched as she tried to peer over her shoulder to look at her instructor, straining to catch sight of that stoic face she’d grown familiar with. Instead, she was met with a firm hand turning her head forward as he continued to adjust her position, his body stiffening behind her.

“Nevermind, your Highness. Excuse my poorly chosen words.”

“Oh, I think not.” She pulled out of his grip and wheeled on him, her hands planted firmly on her hips, corrected stance forgotten. “I demand you explain what you meant by that.”

The male’s tawny gaze hardened slightly as he shook his head and stepped away.

“You should be able to defend yourself, royalty or not. There may not always be a soldier there to protect you. It’s common sense.”

“Do you have such little faith in our military?” He had trained with them during the entirety of his visit, after all.

“I do not lack faith in your men, but you should not trust the whims of faith to ensure you’re always protected.” He bent and swiped up his practice sword from the ground. “Anything can happen; there is no fool-proof guard.”

Eleanor nearly snorted at the solemnity of his features. The idea that her men couldn’t protect her always was preposterous. They had never failed in all of her life and would continue to serve her faithfully as they always had.

No sense in getting her hands dirty.

“Such nonsense.” She threw down her sword, her patience for training waning for the day as she squinted up at the blazing sun - they were rapidly approaching noon. “The guard of Wendlyn will always protect the royal family with their lives. Now, I think I’m quite done with swordplay for the day.” She smiled as she nodded toward the stables. “Shall we ride out towards the Eastern forest? If we leave now we will be back before dinner.”

If they hurried there would even be time for her to dismount and splash about on the shore of the river for a time.

Gavriel watched her quietly for a moment. Impossible, his face was nearly impossible to read. She nearly whined.

“Unless you prefer we continue to swing about bits of wood,” she gestured her aching arm halfheartedly at her discarded sword, “but I swear on my life I will be intentionally terrible at it.” 

At that, Eleanor could have sworn a small smile appeared on Gavriel’s face and he huffed under his breath, turning away quickly to hang his own sword back on the rack. Had he laughed? Eleanor quirked her head.

“Of that I have no doubt,”- she nearly squawked in indignance - “but yes, princess, we can depart for the eastern forest if it pleases you.”

_Thank the gods._ “It would.” She stuck her nose in the air and hobbled on aching legs toward the stables, pleased to have at least gained some small victory.

* * *

The river had been divine. They’d arrived at the old mill with enough sunlight that she’d been able to happily dismount Cecilia and bolt straight for the water’s edge. She’d quickly kicked off her boots and socks before sinking her toes in the cool, soothing mud, all manners abandoned.

It’d been something she’d been scolded for even as a child but hadn’t cared, especially as the soft breeze danced over the river, pulling more strands free from her braid and as the earthy smell of the bank filled her.

Much to her enjoyment, Gavriel had sat silently beneath a tree and made no comment about her actions, watching her as she trotted about recounting stories from her childhood. A companion who did not talk but instead listened was a blessing she never realized she’d desired.

All the attention she could ever desire without even the smallest complaint.

Their time on the river had been far too short and they’d ended up riding quickly with their return, racing against the setting sun so that they’d have time to bathe and dress for dinner. A dinner that had turned out to be dreadfully boring, full of monotonous discussion about trade and politics that Evalin had easily navigated with Glaston and the other ladies and lords.

Eleanor had nearly fallen asleep in her mashed potatoes.

She’d never been so grateful to have been granted leave, gracefully standing and pushing in her chair, Glaston and Evalin still deep in conversation as the plates were cleared away. She’d dipped a curtsy and immediately ventured out into the garden, the autumn breeze wrapping around her as she strolled along the winding stone path. She’d been relaxing in the cool moonlight the last few hours, her mind wandering as aimlessly as her feet.

Eleanor had been pleased to note Lord Dennor’s absence as of late, having made himself scarce since the hunting incident. She wondered if it was too much to hope that he’d been consumed by a pack of wolves and would not be returning.

Gavriel had also vanished upon their return, having bowed and left her in the stables. To her slight surprise, she found his absence had not been as revered.

Sighing, she glanced up at the stars, her mind drifting to Terrasen. Would this be her last autumn in her kingdom? Would she be a lady-in-waiting in a foreign land in a years’ time? Or would Evalin make arrangements for her to marry one of the little lords of Terrasen?

She supposed either option might not be so bad, as long as it wasn’t Dennor or any of the other suitors that Glaston had not-so-subtly presented her with. It wasn’t much of a choice, but it was better than nothing.

Glancing at her hands she felt a familiar sadness creep in, a need for a freedom that she would never be granted. How might her life have been different if she were permitted to make her own choices, to do as she pleased and not as tradition dictated? Not required to make numerous little heirs that would wear pretty clothes and serve as beacons of hope for the general populace?

Perhaps she’d have started her own merchant company, or would have joined a traveling band of gypsies, telling the fortunes of travelers for coin. She wasn’t much of a performer, but her looks surely would have served her in some way and her ability to talk had gotten her out of enough messes.

Though it’d certainly had gotten her into her fair share as well.

And she wasn’t fond of the thought of living in a tent without a bathtub and a plush bed to sleep in. Being a princess certainly had its benefits.

Regardless, it did little to change the hand she’d been dealt, and she knew it would be best if she played it to the best of her ability. She would go with Evalin when the time came and would see where the fates led her from there. She certainly wouldn’t submit to anyone without some type of a fight.

Nan had once told her mother they would have been wise to have left her in the woods somewhere as a babe, for she would be nothing but trouble. In return, she’d gleefully given the nurse enough flack that she was certain she was the reason behind much of the woman’s grey hair.

Maybe Evalin would strike gold and find her a quiet, lovely looking man similar to Gavriel, excellent at listening and not too terrible on the eyes. Though Eleanor could certainly do without the fae blood, regardless of how the warrior was beginning to grow on her. Perhaps she’d write a list for Evalin and tell her to send it to Rhoe and have him begin the hunt to find her a suitor.

She smiled at the thought.

Glancing around, she realized she’d wandered past the training grounds, near the outer edge of the castle walls, having become so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t kept track of where she’d been walking. A chill crept up her spine, her skin flecking.

It would be best to head back, she mused as she pulled her shawl about her shoulders, another shiver racing through her, the once pleasant autumn wind suddenly icy and unfriendly. If she started at once she’d be back at the guards’ quarters in a little under half an hour and could ask one of them to escort her the rest of the way back to her room.

Without delay she turned on the stone path and began the trek back to the center of the castle grounds, her unease growing with each step she took. Keeping her shoulders straight she kept moving, chiding herself for the illogical fear she felt.

She’d nearly placated herself when the scuff footsteps broke the silence behind her. She froze. Surely it was just one of the guards out patrolling, she assured herself as she turned to face whoever approached her, no one outside the castle was permitted on the grounds without special permission, much less at this time of night.

A tinge of relief filled her as she caught sight of who it was. Not one of the guards, she realized as the man's face materialized in the faint torchlight above the path, but a rodent.

“My lord.” Eleanor greeted Dennor with a dip of her head, not bothering to curtsy. She grimaced internally, realizing she’d spoken too soon about his absence. The lord shuffled unevenly toward her, stumbling a little on the cobble path as he lifted his head up to Eleanor, his beady eyes somewhat glazed in the dim light as he offered her his signature foul smile.

Disgusting pig.

“Princess,” he slurred, “lovely tonight.”

Whether he was talking about the night or her she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

She took a tentative step back as her instincts pushed for her to continue walking. She was still some distance from the barracks but was certain she could outpace the round little lord who’d clearly had far too much to drink.

“It is, now, if you’ll excuse me,” she muttered and nodded before turning to walk away. More quickly than Dennor should have been able to move, she felt his hand snag around her wrist, far stronger than a man of his stature had the right to be.

“How dare you touch me without my permission--” Fury built in her chest as she rounded on the lord, her fist balling beside her. She’d break every bone in his putrid face. Her words died on her lips, however, as his other hand snapped about her other wrist, effectively pinning her against the wall. She froze as his body pressed against hers as he leered at her, the smell of stale wine still on his lips.

“May I, princess?” he cooed at her, his moustache twitching as he peered closer. Eleanor nearly cursed as she struggled to pry her wrists loose, unable to budge his grip.  
  
“Absolutely not,” she hissed, feeling a bit breathless as she tried to push away from him, a tinge of fear beginning to fill her. Where were the patrols? Surely they ran these paths in the evenings, it’d be foolish not to.

“Ah, you’ve always had such a fighting spirit.” The lord leaned forward and sniffed at Eleanor’s hair; her stomach roiled in response. “Such a stubborn girl, evading my advances. No matter, when you’re mine I won’t need your permission any longer.”

She snarled as she contemplated biting off the lord’s nose at his audacity. “You’ll never have me as your wife and you’ll soon be seeing the inside of a prison cell once I report this to Glaston.” Or to Liam, she thought smugly as she reflected on the Captain of the Guard, he’d happily throw the scoundrel in the dungeons.

The lord gave a laugh, pressing his body closer to Eleanor’s as he tightened his grip on her wrist. She winced as sharp pain raced through her hands. “Your cousin’s already promised me your hand in marriage - it will make no difference.” Ice raced through Eleanor’s veins at the thought. “My goods and trading contracts are far too important for him to dare cross me.”

“You’re lying,” she snapped back.

He only smiled in response.

“Get off of me,” she barked, wriggling beneath him to get free, as her mind raced for a solution. If she screamed she could at least alert the guards; surely there was someone nearby. Gavriel’s words from earlier ran through her mind and she cringed, feeling foolish at not listening to the warrior's advice.

She certainly wouldn’t let Dennor keep his hands on her any longer than he already had. She didn’t know how long she stood there with the lord baring down on her when a calm voice cut through the silence.

“I would advise you to step away from the lady,” the sound of that familiar baritone had relief washing through Eleanor as Dennor turned a scowling face towards the fae male striding up the path, his eyes glowing in the darkness. “It would be to both your and her benefit to do so.”

Dennor lingered only for a moment before scoffing and letting Eleanor free, stepping away from her. Eleanor nearly stuck her tongue out tauntingly at the lord, even as she felt a shiver race across her skin.

Glaring, the man spat at Gavriel’s feet. “Glaston shouldn’t be letting wild animals roam freely on the grounds.” He turned his beady gaze back towards Eleanor, sneering, “Princess.”

She didn’t bother hiding her vulgar gesture. Fury etched across the lord's face and he nearly lunged for her again when Gavriel stepped between them, his broad frame completely blocking Eleanor from view.

“Return to your lodgings,” Gavriel ordered with a thinly veiled snarl that had the hair on Eleanor’s neck prickling, “my _lord_.” The drunk lord gaped at his tone for a moment, before turning with a huff and walking shakily away, rapidly disappearing into deep shadows of the garden.

“Are you all right?” That was concern and . . . anger in the warrior's tone. Forcing her gaze upwards, Eleanor felt surprise fill her as she took in the calm but lethal rage that had consumed his features. He half-raised his hand, as though to reach for her, then seemed to catch himself and instead asked, “Did he injure you?”

Eleanor tried to open her mouth to tell him she was fine but found no sound would come out. She settled for shaking her head, trying to quiet the tremor that had appeared in her hands.

“You would be wise to stay as far away from that man as possible.”

“Yes,” she finally managed, though her voice still wavered, “I know.” A thought struck her. “Why were you out here? Were you following him?”  
  
At that Gavriel did not reply, still staring with predatory intensity into the darkness where the lord had disappeared.

“Well?”

“I’ll walk you back to your rooms.” There was finality in that tone; she wouldn’t be getting any answers out of him tonight. He offered his arm out to her, his features finally beginning to soften. “Shall we?”

Eleanor nodded numbly and set her hand on the sleeve of his tunic, finding an odd comfort in the solidity beneath. They walked in silence for a time, Eleanor stepping close to Gavriel to soak up some of the heat radiating off of him to thaw her frozen body.

Her pride would never allow her to admit the fae male had been right, but if he hadn’t shown up when he did---

“Gavriel?”

“Yes?”

“About those lessons . . .”


End file.
